“O, please don’t,” said Neva quickly as her aunt started from her chair, “I didn’t know ’bout it’s ever being a butterfly. Will it really be like that other one, and could you keep it long enough; and how can you tell what kind of a butterfly it will be?” Aunt Doris laughed as she said, “Three questions all in one breath. I know it will be that kind of a butterfly because I’ve studied about butterflies and caterpillars. It has another name beside caterpillar and that is larva. It is a very good name for it means a mask. You know when a thing is masked you can’t tell quite what it is by its looks and so you might call this caterpillar a masked butterfly.” “I think it is a good name,” said Neva, “’cause I never would guess it was going to be a butterfly; but can we keep it until it isn’t masked?” “Yes, if you will run and ask Nora for a small pasteboard box we will fix a house for it,” said her aunt. Neva ran into the kitchen and soon returned with a shoe-box asking, “Will this do? It’s the littlest one there was.” “Yes, that will make a nice, roomy house,” replied her aunt, laying the caterpillar gently in the box. Then taking a piece of netting from her work basket she tied it over the top in place of the cover. “Now it will have plenty of light and air,” she said. “The next thing will be to get it something to eat.” “What do caterpillars like?” asked Neva. “Mostly leaves,” replied her aunt. “Well, there is one leaf in the box; won’t it eat that?” asked the little girl, watching the caterpillar crawling over it. “No, dear, caterpillars are very particular about their food; they all eat leaves, but different kinds of caterpillars eat different kinds of leaves. This kind feeds on the leaves of the milk-weed. The butterfly is always very careful to lay the eggs on the plant whose leaves supply the food of the caterpillar so when the little caterpillar comes out of the tiny egg its food is all ready for it.” “Why, Aunt Doris! How can butterflies ever know so much? They don’t eat leaves, do they?” asked Neva in a surprised tone. “No, butterflies eat honey and overripe fruit and such things; it is indeed wonderful that they can select the right plant, but the One who made the butterfly gave it wonderful instinct. Who is He, Neva?” “Our Father,” answered the little girl. “I know that we sing in school: ‘The little sparrow falleth not But Jesus taketh heed.’ but I never thought of His paying much attention to such a little thing as butterflies. I’m not afraid of this caterpillar now; I just, almost, pretty nearly love it.” Aunt Doris smiled, then setting the box upon the railing she said: “This caterpillar must have taken quite a journey; we will go down the road a ways and see if we can find some milk-weed leaves for it.”